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One of the weirdest things humans do is to classify half of all humans
as niche. As though women's shit isn't real shit - as though menses and
horses and being internet-harassed aren't as interesting as beer-farts
and monster trucks and doing the harassing. That's why Tacocat is
radical: not because a female-driven band is some baffling novelty, but
because they're a group making art about experiences in which gender is
both foregrounded and neutralized. This isn't lady stuff, it's people
stuff. It's normal. It's nothing and everything. It's life.

The four actual best friends - Emily Nokes (vocals, tambourine), Eric
Randall (guitar), Lelah Maupin (drums), and Bree McKenna (bass) - came
together in their teens and early baby twenties and coalesced into a
band eight years ago, and you can feel that they've built both their
lives, and their sound, together. Hanging out with Tacocat and
listening to Tacocat are remarkably similar experiences, like the
best party you've ever been to, where, instead of jostling for social
position, everyone just wants to eat candy and talk about Sassy
Magazine, sci-fi, cultural dynamic shifts, and bad experiences with men.

Tacocat's third studio album, 'Lost Time' (an X-Files reference,
doy), is their first with producer Erik Blood. "I would describe him
generally as a beautiful wizard,"Nokes said, "who, in our opinion, took
the album to the next level. Wizard level." Blood's sounds are wide and
expansive, bringing a fullness to the band's familiar sparkling snarl.
The Tacocat of 'Lost Time' are triumphantly youthful but also
plainspoken and wise, as catchy as they are substantive. 'Men Explain
Things to Me' eviscerates male condescension with sarcastic surf guitar.
On 'The Internet,' they swat away trolls with an imperiousness so
satisfying you want to transmogrify it into a sheetcake and devour it:
"Your place is so low / Human mosquito."

One of feminism's biggest hurdles has always been that it isn't allowed
to be fun. Tacocat gives that notion precisely the credence that
it deserves, ignoring it altogether and making fun, funny,
unselfconscious pop songs about the shit they're genuinely obsessing or
groaning over: Plan B, night swimming, high school horse girls ("they
know the different breeds of all their favorite steeds!"), the
bridge-and-tunnel bros who turn their neighborhood into a toilet every
weekend. And, eight years in, Tacocat have built something bigger
than themselves. They've fostered a feminist punk scene in Seattle so
fertile it's going national and rendering the notion of the "girl band"
even more laughable than it already was. There are no "girl bands" in
Seattle anymore. There are just bands and everyone else. "Women"Nokes
jokes. "They're just like us!"